


The Wish, Fulfilled

by eyeus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Twilight Zone
Genre: 5+1, Afghanistan, Alternate Meeting, Doppelganger, M/M, Soldier!John, Supernatural - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, army doctor!John, crisis apparitions, ghosts of the living
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious war journalist haunts John throughout his tour of duty in Afghanistan, urging him to return to London. He disappears soon after they strike up a romance, leaving John baffled—until he resurfaces unexpectedly in a lab at St Barts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wish, Fulfilled

**Author's Note:**

> The basic premise is borrowed from the Twilight Zone episode “Little Boy Lost”. Essentially, five times Sherlock appeared to John and tried to dissuade him from the army, and one time he did the opposite.
> 
>    
>  _“John Watson, army doctor. A man who can make the split-second choice between suture or dressing on the battlefield, making the difference between a life lost or saved. But like anyone, he has trouble choosing which road of life to travel, especially when that road winds deep within the shadows of…The Twilight Zone.”_

 

1

 

It’s been a gruelling day on the base. 

Especially if the blood encrusted under John’s fingernails and the tired lines around his eyes are any indication. 

He isn’t among those actively patrolling and keeping insurgents from overrunning their camp, but John’s spent the better part of the day stitching gaping wounds and changing grit-caked dressings, just struggling to keep his comrades alive. It’s an uphill battle to stay awake long enough to stumble to his tent, with only the promise of a clean bunk to keep him going.

John’s just pulled off his boots and tossed them aside when a pale hand parts the canvas of his tent and a tall stranger strides in. His hair’s wild and unruly, not the standard crew-cut of the military, and his clothes are ill-fitting, as if he’s stolen the camouflage ensemble from another soldier’s bunk. They hang loosely off his lanky frame, flapping awkwardly as the man eyes his surroundings.

“I’m sorry, can I help you?” John asks, stifling a yawn behind his fist. 

The stranger blinks. “I’m a…photojournalist for the BBC, specializing in war correspondence.” He pulls out a notebook and pencil, his eyes flicking toward John’s desk, with its half-obscured photograph of his regiment. The caption is illegible except for the scrawled _Fusiliers_. “You must be Captain John Watson of the Royal Army Medical Corps.”

It’s John’s turn to blink. “I—yeah.” He realizes belatedly that he’s been staring at the stranger’s shapely mouth for longer than should be appropriate, when the stream of deductions about his regiment pause and the man stares expectantly at him. 

John snaps his attention back to eye level. “Aren’t you a bit far from the frontline? This isn’t a major base, and…well.” He touches his tongue to his lip. “We only provide medical treatment in this section of the base, anyway.” 

He clamps his mouth shut after that. With him running his mouth off, he’ll probably turn the poor bugger away before he even gets his story. At the same time, he hasn’t heard of journalists venturing this far out into the desert for war narratives, and he wonders how this man made it through enemy territory unscathed. 

The man shrugs, a calculated rise and fall of angular shoulders. “I’m covering a different facet of the news. The perspective on this war from soldiers who aren’t on the frontline.”

“Oh.” John nods. There’s logic in that approach. “Look, not to be a killjoy,” he begins kindly, “but now’s not the best time.” He’s not sure there _is_ a best time, but a moment where he’s not desperately trying to stay awake would be it. “If you’d like to come back tomorrow, I could tell you more about our base and what we do here.”

The other man stills briefly, as if unused to being openly invited to anything. “I’d like that,” he says slowly. “Though just by observing, I can tell there are about fifty soldiers in this base. The location of it—situated close to enemy-controlled areas—suggests that you’re not a command centre, so you probably train and support light troops.” 

He pauses just long enough for John’s lips to part in surprise. “You’re also one of two army doctors located on this base, evident from the dried blood under your fingernails, but also from the white sash with the red cross pinned to your sleeve. Three of your patients sustained heavy injuries and two others have light wounds, judging by your fatigue and the depletion level of your medical kit.” A nod toward John’s open medical kit, its contents evidently dwindling.

“That’s _brilliant_ ,” John exclaims, amazed. 

“You think so?” A faint worry line appears between the man’s brows. John restrains the giggle building in his throat—as if someone this amazing could have anything to worry about.

“Absolutely,” he beams. “At this rate, I’m not sure I’ll have much to tell you tomorrow.”

“That’s not true,” comes the quick reply. “I would very much value your input, Doctor Watson.”

“ _John_ , please,” John insists. 

The man nods, though he’s looking tentative now as he backs out of the tent. “I should…interview some of the other soldiers,” he says. “Thank you, John. You’ve been instrumental in my research.”

“Wait,” John croaks hoarsely. His fingers catch the sleeve of his would-be interviewer, a gentle tug that makes the other man turn, fixing his slate-grey eyes on John’s. A faint flush creeps across John’s face under the intensity of that stare, and he mumbles sheepishly, “I didn’t catch your name.” 

His war correspondent deliberates the inquiry for a moment. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he replies, lip quirked in the briefest of smiles before he lifts the tent flap and disappears into the night.

 

2

 

It’s a week before he sees Sherlock again. Even then, the man appears as quietly and unobtrusively as he leaves—to some extent. 

“You should focus your resources on Davis, your comrade with the bullet wound to his thigh,” Sherlock starts, bursting into John’s tent. “His blood pressure might’ve been normal this evening, but without intravenous fluids soon, he’ll be hypotensive in the morning.” He notices John’s raised eyebrows. “Poor skin turgor. I…noticed as I passed by your sick bay,” Sherlock adds, by way of explanation. 

“Mmh. Hello to you too,” John grins. He’s sure the other doctor on duty will notice what Sherlock’s seen anyway and take action accordingly. Right now, though, he’d like to get to know the man who saw through the base’s purpose and defences in less than a night.

Watching him huddle near the tent entrance makes John wish he had the luxury of a space warmer, but those commodities don’t exist out here, so he throws his own coat and a blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders. It’s a testament to how chilled the man is that Sherlock doesn’t resist the gesture or shrug off the garments.

“So, where’ve you been all week?” John asks, as he settles on his cot, legs swinging over the side.

“You aren’t the only soldier on this base I’ve been conversing with.” Sherlock exudes a faint air of arrogance, even between shudders that he tries to hide. 

“Oh. I didn’t mean it like that.” John tries to shrug off the disappointment settling at the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t thought he was _special_ , in any way. 

Something on his face must give him away, however, as Sherlock amends, “It’s…been a long day.” 

John resists the urge to say that Sherlock’s days must be long _and_ difficult to keep track of, considering how he’d never come back ‘tomorrow’ as promised, and instead shown up a week later. “I suppose you’ve got the information you need now,” John says, arms folded over his chest to ward off further barbs.

Sherlock shrugs. “I could still use your assistance, John. Besides, I need to compile the data into a recognizable form.” He thumbs nonchalantly at his notebook, with its scribbled, spidery-thin handwriting. 

“Oh. May I see?” asks John. 

“I…” Sherlock pauses. John sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and hands over the notebook. “I haven’t started putting it together yet, but rest assured, it will be well worth it when complete.” 

His brow furrows when John laughs. “You’ll be the first to read it,” Sherlock insists.

“Yeah, all right,” John concedes, shaking his head at the undecipherable scrawl. “You and your chicken scratch will win the Nobel Prize in Literature.” He shoots a grin at Sherlock, whose shoulders relax, like he’s just realized the comment was made in jest. “Seriously, though. You’ve got the barest of notes in this,” he says, handing back the notebook.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow into a dark glare. “That’s because my _brain_ is my hard drive, collecting all the data and facts. Not this—” he flaps his notebook, its tattered pages fluttering helplessly, “—inadequate thing.”

John’s about to say some combination of “amazing” and “still disappointed you didn’t return earlier”, but it’s late and arguing with this brilliant man is the last thing he wants. He glances at Sherlock, who’s sufficiently bundled for the desert cold now, and John’s suddenly got a better idea. 

He peers outside the tent. It’s safe and quiet for now—no flares from insurgents attacking, and a reasonable number of patrolmen circling the perimeter of their base. John grabs another blanket, bundling it beneath his arm. 

“Come on,” he says, standing up. He tugs Sherlock by the corner of his blanket-coat aggregate. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.” Giddiness wells up inside him, like the hushed enthusiasm of a child revealing something secret and sacrosanct.

When they step out of the tent, John manoeuvres them past razor-wire fences and army vehicles to a clearing tucked between a cluster of tents. He spreads the blanket on the ground, urging Sherlock to lie back on it as they gaze into the majestic night sky. Tonight it’s a deep royal purple, tinged with streaks of cobalt that reach as far as the eye can see, with innumerable stars dotting the skyscape like luminescent pearls.

“I was heading back to my tent when I discovered this place,” John says, a touch shyly, wondering what Sherlock will think of this secret he’s been hoarding. 

Sherlock remains silent, as if deeply contemplative.

“There’s Ursa Minor,” John continues, speaking to cover the awkwardness. He points to the group of stars within the vast glittering canopy they’re gazing at. “And you know that one, at its tip, of course.” Everyone knows Polaris—even the ancient mariners swore by it. 

Sherlock shrugs uncomfortably. “I never concerned myself with such things,” he says finally. “Stars, planets. Galaxies and the like.”

“You never—but it’s _the_ stellar system!” John exclaims, incredulous. It’s difficult to comprehend how Sherlock, with all the conclusions he draws from minutiae, could ignore the intricacies and grandeur of the night sky. 

Sherlock shrugs again, and a companionable silence falls between them. After a moment, he admits, “It _is_ beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I thought you didn’t care about—”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.” He turns to John, the hint of a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

John grins back in response. He’s not sure what spurs him to take his next action, be it the breathtaking beauty of the night sky, or just knowing he has someone to share this with, but he takes Sherlock’s hand, threading his fingers through cool, slender ones. A frisson of chilled electricity races upward from John’s fingertips, tingling through his hand at each point of contact with Sherlock.

To his surprise, Sherlock doesn’t pull away. Instead, he laces their hands together more tightly and sighs. “Do you wonder what it might be like, to gaze at the same sky from London?” he asks.

“Sometimes.” John doesn’t ask how Sherlock knows London used to be his home; it’s probably evident from his accent, mannerisms, or whatever tells give away his life story to Sherlock. “I imagine it won’t be for another while, though. I’m signing up for another tour of duty after this, before my army doctoring days are over.”

“Ah.” Sherlock’s fingers tighten around his for a fraction of a second, before going slack. He remains close-lipped after that. 

“Sherlock. What’s wrong?” John folds his thumb over Sherlock’s hand, stroking gently. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” Sherlock flashes him a smile, the artificial one that creases his face into odd angles. “It’s late, I should let you rest.” John watches him sit up, and desperately tries to memorize every line of Sherlock’s profile, the color of his soft, silken hair under the starlight and the timbre of his velvet baritone. It could be another week, another month before he sees Sherlock again, with no guarantee of a next time, and oh, _bollocks_ , he’s already wondering when next time will _be_ , like an addict wonders about their next hit of cocaine.

Sherlock must notice his scrutiny, because his smile fades into the more genuine one, with softer lines around his mouth and eyes. “Thank you, John,” he adds quietly, slipping free of John’s grip.

John catches his hand again, fingers tangling within Sherlock’s in the same complicated pattern his own emotions are weaving into. “Stay. Please.”

A shake of Sherlock’s head. “I shouldn’t.” He closes his eyes, fingers curling around John’s for a moment before sliding away. “I’ll be seeing you,” he says tersely, walking briskly into the distance. 

John stares after him, wondering if it’s something he’s said or done, because _damn it_ , Sherlock can’t be ‘interviewing other soldiers’ as he claimed last time. It suddenly occurs to him that Sherlock’s odd behaviour was spurred by his reluctance to return to London. “Sherlock? Why’s it important for me to go back to London?” John calls after him.

There’s no response, not even from the speck that is Sherlock from afar.

By the time John’s covered a fair distance, scanning the area for his friend, Sherlock’s already gone. All that lingers is a pervading sense of loneliness, one that chills John to the bone and has nothing to do with the desert cold.

 

3

 

The next time Sherlock appears, pale and worn, John doesn’t badger him with questions about the interval since his last visit. Instead, he outlines more details of the base Sherlock might have missed, and his responsibilities as an army doctor. Meanwhile, Sherlock mentions his side occupation: working with the police to analyze their crime scenes, and with his observations, deducing both motive and murderer. John’s enraptured by his stories, and it appears Sherlock knows a great deal more about crime scene analysis than he does war photojournalism. 

In fact, it’s when Sherlock fumbles and nearly drops his expensive-looking camera that they have their first chaste kiss in the tent, away from prying eyes. Because despite being aloof and condescending at the best of times, Sherlock can be unexpectedly adorable, and it’s showing now, a light blush coloring his cheeks at the mishandle (an unfortunate side effect of waving his arms emphatically to make a point). 

Setting down the camera he’s rescued, John trundles forward and impulsively presses his lips to Sherlock’s—a light, gentle touch that’s reciprocated with dazed blinking. Sherlock’s lips are cool, his breath against John’s mouth a puff of wintry air, but it hardly matters, because Sherlock’s in his tent, _kissing_ him.

“I’m a bit tired,” John admits, though he’s beaming as he pulls back. “Maybe I’ll have a shower before heading to bed.” He gives Sherlock a coy smile. “Coming?”

Sherlock mumbles something about ‘running water’, and shakes his head. John sighs, but decides to stay in the tent to turn in for the night. Deep down, he fears that if he leaves, Sherlock won’t be here when he returns.

“Sorry it’s just a simple blanket and such,” John says, crawling onto the cot. “The desert can get rather cold at night.” He arranges himself along the length of the cot, beckoning Sherlock over as he opens his arms, warm and inviting.

“None of the amenities of your homeland, clearly,” Sherlock says, a bit sharply as he positions himself against John, facing the side of the tent.

“All right, what’s this about returning to London?” He nudges Sherlock gently in the space behind his knees. It doesn’t make sense; even if John can somehow forego his tour of duty, Sherlock can’t stay with him, considering his war journalism stint.

“It’s not…I wasn’t trying to…” Sherlock sputters. “It’s nothing,” he says finally, resolutely. When John snuggles closer, he’s aware of Sherlock’s wary expression.

“It’s fine,” John soothes, hand stroking gently over Sherlock’s hip. “It’s all fine. You can trust me.”

Sherlock relaxes a little in his arms, but his answer remains guarded. “Let’s not think about that,” he says, trying to wriggle closer to John, resulting in what feels like an in-bed wrestling match. “Please?”

“Easy there,” John laughs. He pulls the blanket over them, grateful that Sherlock’s decided to stay the night, with _him_ , when he could stay anywhere else. Before he drifts off to sleep, he remembers to press a kiss to Sherlock’s curls, smiling at the soft, near-purr it elicits.

When John wakes, there’s no sign of Sherlock in his cot or tent. He’s sure he didn’t feel Sherlock slip away during the night, considering the arm John had draped over him. Besides, Sherlock would have had to crawl over him to leave.

If John didn’t know any better, he’d almost believe Sherlock had evaporated like so much misted fog, a phantom in the night.

 

4

 

John’s started noticing the longer intervals between Sherlock’s appearances, and on a day no one’s been seriously hurt, he decides to take the initiative. He searches the base, exploring accessible tents and common areas for even the vaguest hint of Sherlock’s whereabouts.

Just as he’s about to give it up as a bad job, he spots Davis trying to light a cigarette around the corner. There’s an audible _click_ as he flicks the flint wheel fruitlessly.

“Bit early for a smoke, isn’t it?” John grins. 

“Any time’s good when you feel the need comin’ on,” the man replies, flicking the flint wheel once more. 

“I guess,” says John with a one-shouldered shrug, before vaulting to the crux of his inquiry. “Have you seen a tall, posh-looking bloke? Dark hair, pale skin? Name’s Sherlock Holmes. Been interviewing some of our men on this base. You might have seen him stop by the sick bay.” John still remembers Sherlock’s impressive deduction about the state of this man’s blood pressure. 

“Sherlock?” Davis’ eyebrows rise minutely. “Never heard of ‘im.” _Flick._ A tiny blue flame roars to life in the dry desert air. Cigarette lit, Davis takes a slow drag from it and taps the ash onto the ground. The white, flaky detritus scatters thinly across the sand. “You sure the hot sun isn’t making you daft, Watson?” 

John stares at him in disbelief. “Never mind,” he says, trudging back to his tent. 

As he lies on his cot, gazing unseeingly, doubts rise and churn in his mind, stirring a nebulous whirlpool of suspicion. Is Sherlock actually what he says he is? What is he, if he _isn’t_? It’s highly improbable for him to be the enemy or to be conspiring with insurgents, and equally unlikely for them to send a gangly, pale man into their midst for espionage purposes.

He keeps his suspicions to himself, however. 

And when Sherlock comes to visit him again, looking more haggard than he did the last, he takes Sherlock into his arms again, willingly, desperately, and without question.

 

5

 

“Who are you, really?” 

Sherlock’s just stumbled into John’s tent, more faint and exhausted than before. While confronting Sherlock when he’s obviously worn out is the last thing John wants, he isn’t sure when he’ll get the chance to again. “You claim to be a war correspondent, but no one’s seen you besides _me_ ,” John adds tentatively.

“I…” Sherlock shakes his head, looking like he’s about to collapse.

“Never mind,” says John, inwardly kicking himself for giving in so easily. “I don’t care who you are. Just stay. Please, Sherlock.” His voice catches oddly in his throat, and he holds his hand out to Sherlock, imploringly.

Sherlock manages a sad smile, but doesn’t grasp John’s hand. “You don’t understand, John. There’s no more time.”

“What do you mean? You’ve only just come!” John exclaims, incredulous. Suddenly, he’s desperate to keep Sherlock there, wants him, _needs_ him. “Sherlock, whatever’s threatening you, tell me. You can trust me.”

“There’s nothing _threatening_ me, John.” Sherlock laughs, but it’s a strangely hollow sound, like an echo in a forsaken valley. 

__“Then what is it? What’s bothering you?”_ _

__“I’ve…mentioned it before,” says Sherlock. His words trickle like molasses, as if merely speaking requires tremendous effort. “But you seemed so adamant about staying here.”_ _

__“Is this about returning to London? Sherlock, you know I can’t. I’ve already signed up for another tour.”_ _

__Sherlock’s face looks pinched with hurt, and John steps forward to gather Sherlock into his arms for comfort, to tell him he’ll go back during leave, when to his horror, his arms pass through Sherlock and he’s embracing empty _air_. _ _

__“Sherlock… _what_ are you?” He hasn’t recoiled in horror, because whatever Sherlock is, he’s never hurt John, but the _what_ makes John’s mind tilt in confused circles. He struggles for ideas, theories—perhaps Sherlock’s a ghost, a spirit with unfinished business. Or an astral projection that’s somehow managed physical manifestation._ _

__“Are you an angel?” John asks weakly, throwing his most absurd idea out there. “Or a—”_ _

__“Demon?” Sherlock snaps. He rolls his eyes. “ _Please_. With these pitiful attempts to lure you into leaving the army?” With a wry grin, he says, “You’ve made your choice, John.” _ _

__“I don’t understand.”_ _

__“You’ll have other friends. Other lovers. But you’ll never have _me_.” Sherlock’s grin wilts miserably, and his pained smile is the last thing John remembers, burnt into his memory as he leaps forward and tries to embrace the fading form. He pushes through damp, cool air yet again, his arms as empty as they were before._ _

__Kneeling against the floor, John rakes his hands through his hair, torn between the desire to weep or shout. It’s all been so unreal; that of all tents, Sherlock would come to _his_ , would grace John with his presence and his brilliant deductions, before slipping away like some ethereal entity._ _

__He wonders if Sherlock’s someone he might have met if he hadn’t been a soldier, hadn’t set out for Afghanistan or signed up for another bloody tour. Not that it matters—he won’t experience Sherlock’s quick wit and intelligence ever again. As he cradles his head in his hands to grieve, John spots Sherlock’s notebook on his desk and pounces on it, eager to cling to the vestiges of Sherlock’s existence._ _

__Flipping frantically through the pages, he discovers that they’re all unmercifully blank, devoid of even Sherlock’s sparse scrawl as if he’s faded irrevocably from John’s life._ _

____

 

+1

 

It’s not the screams or explosions that wake him, but the whistle of mortars too close and loud—like boiling kettles amplified to ear-splitting—that jerk John awake. 

His regiment’s caught in the middle of a firefight with insurgents, guns discharging in the night and explosions kicking up clods of sand and smoke. The air is rent with acrid fumes and the rank stench of blood. John tries to roll off his cot and gather his gear, but there’s a hand against his chest restraining him, and “ _Stop_ ”, in the silky baritone he’s clung to in dreams. All John can see, however, is a shadow cast by fires beyond the confines of his tent. 

“John,” the voice warns urgently, “stay here. Keep low to the ground.” 

This must be a dream, because no matter how many times John’s called out for Sherlock, he’s never come, but—

“People are _dying_!” John bellows. “You can’t expect me to stay here, safe and sound while others risk their lives out there.”

He swears he sees Sherlock frown in the surreal, firelit shadows. “You told me once, that you wanted to remain an army doctor. If that’s true, listen to me. You’ll be safe here. I’ll help you hide.”

John bristles at the word _hide_ , pushing Sherlock’s hand away. “I’ve got to go,” he says firmly, because it’s his directive, his function. “Can’t you _hear_ that?” The sounds of bullets bursting through flesh and screams of pain fill the silence, and John turns to throw his first aid kit together in preparation.

“If you go, you’ll…” Sherlock argues, before his eyes widen and his mouth clamps shut.

“I’ll what, save lives? What’s so important that you’re selfishly making me stay here with _you_?”

Sherlock recoils, stung. “No, I didn’t mean…please, you’ve to go to stay _here_.”

“Don’t tell me to stay, when you never did as much for me,” John snaps, snatching his faithful Sig Sauer. At Sherlock’s wounded look, he sighs. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll protect myself,” John says, gently this time.

Sherlock’s expression becomes strangely unreadable, with an underlying tremor, not of bombs going off around them, but a different tension. He stares into Sherlock’s eyes, sensing internal conflict as if Sherlock’s struggling hard with a decision. 

“Please, John,” Sherlock says quietly, taking his hand. He sinks onto the cot, despondent.

“I’m sorry.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand and slips out of his grip. Just before reaching the tent exit, John glances back, and Sherlock looks so forlorn that he stalks over, cupping Sherlock’s chin and pressing their lips together. “I’m glad you came back,” John smiles.

Sherlock stands, his mouth set in a firm line. “This is truly the last time, John.” There’s no longer conflict in his eyes, and all John sees now is inevitability, certainty. 

If he could, he’d ask just what it is that gives Sherlock such conviction.

Other questions bubble to the forefront, however, and John looks away, struggling for words. _What do I have to do to see you again? Will you wait for me? Could we be together?_

“In another life, perhaps,” replies Sherlock sadly. By the time John looks up again, there’s only a faint rustle of the tent flap, and the next volley of bullets nearby drives all thought of Sherlock to the background.

It’s later, when he’s tending to the wounded, removing shrapnel from a comrade, that a searing white-hot pain tears through his shoulder. John crumples to the ground, a sprawled rag doll, each beat of his heart bleeding him out onto the cold, unfeeling sand. As the edges of his consciousness corrode into darkness, he clings desperately to his last memory of Sherlock.

_You did this to me,_ he thinks bitterly, before remembering Sherlock’s warning. _No, I did this to myself. I should have listened. I—_

Slender fingers, with neither ink-stains of a journalist nor hardened calluses of a seasoned photographer soothe his face, before rougher hands drag John away and everything fades to black.

 

***

 

John remembers waking once to blazing pain, his opioids having worn off. The only comfort is a set of cool fingers stroking his brow. He tries to grasp the hand, but his arms feel like lead, and the effort involved tilts him into oblivion again.

 

***

 

“Who’d want _me_ for a flatmate?” John asks much later, scornful of Mike Stamford’s knowing chuckle. He’s been left a broken shell of a man, one even the army doesn’t want, having sent him home with pension just enough for four walls to cage in his empty existence. 

Mike’s eyes shine with unholy glee. “You’re the second person to say that to me today.” 

It’s a short walk to St Bartholomew’s, with its newly equipped labs, and when Mike opens the door to one, John’s breath catches in his throat.

Perched on a chair, among the flasks of colourful chemicals, is the man John’s only spent his waking hours and dreams thinking about since he first appeared in John’s tent. He’s no longer wearing ill-fitting camouflage gear, sporting instead a bespoke suit and shirt.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” asks the man, while borrowing his phone. John’s heart plummets to his stomach at that, because there’s no light of recognition in his eyes. It’s Sherlock all right, but not _his_ Sherlock, though both are evidently quite forward, as the man propositions him to look at a flat within minutes.

“We don’t know a thing about each other,” John replies coolly, and this Sherlock rises to the occasion with his own observations. As he reels out _army doctor, Afghanistan, alcoholic brother,_ and _therapist_ , John thinks it’s _him_ , oh how he _wishes_ it were him.

“How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?” John asks.

“Obvious,” Sherlock replies, launching into another monologue about John’s haircut, word choice and lack of tan above his wrists. Just as John’s about to say ‘brilliant’, he catches “…you were one of two doctors on the base, with fifty other soldiers before being presumably attacked—wounded in the shoulder, from the stiffness in your left…” Suddenly, Sherlock narrows his eyes, blinking rapidly with a tiny shake of his head, as if confused by his own strange tangent.

“Amazing,” John interjects, and the bright, surprised sound that issues forth makes John think he’s really not so different from _his_ Sherlock.

As the door slams on “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker Street”, John’s hand tightens on his cane. 

What was _that_ observation, just now?

 

***

 

For all the secrets of others that Sherlock lays bare, he remains surprisingly tight-lipped about his own. He’s equally cryptic about how he knows details about John’s tour of duty. Similarly, John can’t identify the circumstances which led to Sherlock being able to project himself as a (John’s googled the proper term) _crisis apparition_ , or ‘living ghost’. He suspects they have more to do with Sherlock’s previous drug habit than the perilous lifestyle that chasing criminals affords. Perhaps each time coincides with what John suspects were moments of extreme loneliness, an overdose, or knowing Sherlock, an extremely boring hospital stay.

He hopes Sherlock will tell him, in time. 

Life continues with neither Sherlock’s confirmation about such situations nor flashes of recognition about their time together in Afghanistan. John’s almost given up on it, until one particular moment, months later:

They’re following a lead on a mysterious criminal mastermind (who taunts them with ancient trainers and intricate puzzles) at Vauxhall Arches, when Sherlock glances up at the open canopy above. Only here, deep within the Arches and sheltered from the light-polluted haze shrouding London, can they see the night sky in all its splendour.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I thought you didn’t care about—” John sputters, heart beating wildly at this echo of an eerily similar conversation.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it,” Sherlock replies briskly. 

With bated breath, John decides to take a chance, letting his fingers brush against Sherlock’s. If Sherlock pulls away, John won’t try again; he’ll lock away what he feels for this man, trying not to spend the rest of his life pining.

Sherlock’s warm fingers unfurl and tighten around John’s.

He slips their joined hands into his coat pocket, and quirking a smile, he points skyward, whispering a single word into John’s ear. 

John breathes in sharply, stunned, and for the first time since he’s returned from war, he dares to hope.

Because what Sherlock’s whispered always points true north, guiding them closer to the truth behind what happened _then_ and what’s building between them now, bridging the chasm with its resplendent light.

_Polaris._

**Author's Note:**

> _“The promise of love. The sorrow of loss. The joy of reunion. Two wishes, obscured by duty and conscience, finally fulfilled. But even with the dream in hand, who knows what awaits these lovers in…The Twilight Zone.”_


End file.
